


As Drunk as a Lord

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Series: Whumptober 2020 [28]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Day 28, Dean Winchester Whump, Drunk Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Such wow. Many normal. Very oops., Whump, Whumptober 2020, mugged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27274330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Dean is drunk (what else is new?), and a man tries to mug him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Whumptober 2020 [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947223
Kudos: 31
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	As Drunk as a Lord

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober 2020  
> No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS  
> Mugged

Dean stumbled out of the bar, drunk off his ass. He could barely stand, and certainly wasn’t standing straight up. Was he? No, everything was tipping. And then it kept tipping, spinning. There was three of everything. His head buzzed, his body was numbed, while his stomach sloshed like a raging sea. God, was he going to be sick? No, he couldn’t be sick. He had to… Dean didn’t know what he had to do.

As he walked, and consequently failed at walking, through the alley, a man showed up at the other end. Dean waved a hello to him, which threw him off balance, and he slammed hard against the side of a brick building. Dean stared at the brick now, wondering if it really was brick, and if it was, then why had it been made so poorly? There weren’t straight lines. Just wavering blurs.

Remembering that he wasn’t alone, Dean turned. The man was drawing closer.

Something was held in his hand. It shone from the light of a passing car.

Fuck.

Metal.

That meant a gun, or maybe a knife. Dean couldn’t tell. There were too many shadows, it was too dark, and god, how was he supposed to stand up anymore?

He collapsed onto his knees, fighting off nausea, and held onto the wall, pressing up against it.

The man was before him now, and he was poorly dressed, wearing all black. Dean stared blearily up at him.

“Give me all your money.”

Oh, so he was getting mugged?

Dean started laughing.

“This isn’t funny, jackass. Give me your wallet!”

Dean used the man to clamber to his feet, and he noticed the knife in his hand shaking. Right, a knife. He’d have to keep track of that. Getting stabbed in a back alley while drunk wasn’t the kind of night he’d had in mind. It wasn’t like getting drunk was a big plan for the night either, but with Cas mad at him, what else was he supposed to do?

Dean just wanted his angel.

But no, he got this loser with a knife.

The difference was startling.

Still, Dean laughed, and he had to hold onto the man to keep himself steady. The man pushed him away, and Dean smacked into the wall.

“Uh safed thuh whirl,” Dean muttered, trying to explain what he thought was so funny.

He’d tried saying, _I saved the world_ , but the pause from his potential mugger told him that his words hadn’t made a lick of sense.

“Money! Now!”

Was now a good time to tell him that he’d just used the rest of his money on cheap beer?

“Donn’ahve any,” Dean got out.

He tried shrugging out of his jacket, knowing he could use it to wrap around the man’s arm and deflect the knife in a fight. He only got it half off before getting stuck.

That was when the man stabbed. Dean raised an arm to direct the blow to a safer place on his body, but his motions were too slow, and he’d misjudged.

The short knife rammed into his gut.

Dean’s breath hitched, and he cried out. The man pulled his arm back, about to stab Dean again.

Fuck.

Blood spilling from him, and staining his green Henley, Dean grabbed the man by the back of the head. His movements were fumbling, and when he did manage to butt his head against his, it just gave Dean a pounding headache, and a strange, loose feeling between his eyes like his brains were going to fall out through his sinuses.

He pitched forward, and the man backed away. Dean held his stomach, hand over the knife wound.

And then he puked.

His attacker seemed disgusted, but then he got handsy. Real handsy. Damn, did this dude not know how to search for a wallet? Was he trying to have some fun with him at the same time?

After he’d finished puking, Dean forced out, pain radiating from the center of his body, outwards and up and down to his fingers and toes, “My safe worh dis cherry pie.”

Damn, what business did that man have shoving his hands in Dean’s back pockets like that?

Dean didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or try to say _cherry pie_. At the moment he didn’t consider that that last one wouldn’t work.

The dude seemed to find his wallet, saw that it was empty, and tossed it down on him.

It began to rain.

“Stupid drunk.”

The man left, and Dean lay on the ground, his blood mixing with the rain.

Despite being drunk as fuck, he knew he had to keep pressure on his injury. So that’s what he did. He tried to put enough pressure to make it painful, knowing that’s how it was supposed to be done so he wouldn’t bleed to death.

Maybe he would bleed to death, especially since he didn’t have the strength to keep his hand tight over the wound.

Time passed, and the darkness started getting brighter. It wasn’t yet that pre-dawn gray though.

All of Dean hurt, ached, throbbed, and he was tired. So tired. It was a wonder he’d stayed awake. But it was basically impossible to sleep while agony laced its way through your body. And lace its way through him it had. It was still doing it. Dean couldn’t feel his fingers. His abdomen seemed to be going cold, especially on the right side, where the stab wound was.

 _At least it was a small knife,_ he reconciled.

Eventually, when the world seemed to be going dark on the edges — probably from exhaustion — Dean heard a familiar purring.

Castiel was rushing over now, and Dean just gave him a stupid smile.

“Yurhl ay to the par-hee.”

_You’re late to the party._

Damn, he still couldn’t speak right. At the moment, that didn’t seem very important. The blood that still hadn’t yet coagulated was a bigger problem.

Castiel brushed Dean’s hand aside, and put his own over it. His palm glowed, and the pain ebbed, till eventually, Dean couldn’t feel any damage from the wound at all. It was gone. And then he was sober.

He sat up, shuddering and letting out strange noises through his mouth from the startling sobriety that had shocked through his system.

“Damn, thanks, Cas.”

Castiel caressed Dean’s cheek. “I got worried when you didn’t come back to the motel. What happened?” He sure as hell didn’t sound mad at him now. Guess concern could do that to a guy, wipe away all other emotions. Was there guilt? Maybe Dean could use that.

No, that would be a dick move.

He answered, relieved that he was safe and no longer in pain, “A guy tried to mug me.”

Though he was healed, Castiel still helped Dean as he got to his feet. And then he picked his wallet up from the ground. He observed it, seeming concerned.

“Don’t worry. It was empty before the guy even got to me.”

“You know, you need to stop drinking so much.”

“Why would I do that?”

Dean gave him a cheery smile, and then let Cas put an arm around his waist so they could walk to the Impala together.

“Dean, you stink.”

“Thanks.”

“You need to shower when you get back.”

“And you’re showering with me.”

Dean didn’t need to see Castiel’s face, or hear his words, to know that he would do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Ack, almost caught up again! I really just need to finish this. Damn.


End file.
